


Unspoken

by stardust_made



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Dom/sub Undertones, M/M, Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-08
Updated: 2011-12-08
Packaged: 2017-10-27 02:14:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,928
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/290542
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stardust_made/pseuds/stardust_made
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for the following prompt:“Lestrade [beep] Mycroft in the Diogenes Club. Since they're not allowed to make any noise, Lestrade dirty talks directly into Mycroft's ear and Mycroft is almost mad because it's getting harder and harder to stifle his moans.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Unspoken

Mycroft’s last doubt about this little _situation_ evaporates when he sees Greg’s figure at the far entrance of the main lounge. The Diogenes isn’t the sort of establishment to just _let_ people in. There is something forbidding even in the fact that the name of the club is absent from all exterior surfaces—and from the most obvious interior ones, as well. No, if Greg’s managed to make it in, it could only mean one thing: Mycroft’s gone and done it this time.

It was bound to happen—and Mycroft doesn’t mean Greg’s promotion. Neither does he mean the crossing of a line. If all the lines crossed between them were put together, their relationship would look like a plate of spaghetti. What Mycroft means is crossing _the_ line. The first one that cannot be overlooked, relocated or erased by Greg’s admirably flexible psyche or by his—seemingly genuine—affection for Mycroft.

Mycroft is the one to spot Greg first, so he utilizes his advantage. But he barely has the chance to note the breathtaking tightness of Greg’s jaw and the salacious bulge of his hands in his pockets before Greg spots him, too—or, more specifically, he spots Mycroft’s eyes over the edge of the newspaper. Mycroft doesn’t lower the paper but continues to watch Greg as he approaches. Mycroft’s stomach flips with excitement—he so loves novelty—but there’s a smidgen of apprehension as well. He isn’t worried, per se. He just doesn’t feel so…certain about what comes next. Well, he thinks, part and parcel with the novelty.

Greg’s face is already clearly in focus. He isn’t thunderous, that much is evident to Mycroft. He is just somewhat…hmm. Determined? Exasperated? Resolved? (To do what?)

Menacing?

Mycroft’s abdominal muscles tighten again. He hurries to the safety of observation.

Creases on Greg’s trousers, mostly in his lap, concordant with sitting in a vehicle between fifteen and twenty-five minutes. Mycroft really wishes he had a moment to let his eye linger on that marvellous crotch, but time is of the essence. Judging by the length of the journey and the lack of traffic along the way, Greg’s coming from Scotland Yard. No coat—he left in a hurry. Greg forgot all his cash at home, on the improvised poker table from last night. That means no cab—if he stormed out without his coat, it’s highly unlikely he’d have wasted time going around borrowing cash. Obviously angry enough to abuse his position and take a ride in a police car for a personal matter.

Greg stops by Mycroft’s chair and his shining, hard eyes pin Mycroft to the seat. He’s had a cigarette. That’s not good at all, for either of them, although for different reasons. One last quick once-over and Mycroft sees the specks of mud on both Greg’s shoes, and some on his trousers, too. It hasn’t rained for twenty-four hours, but there’s a loosened pavement five minutes from here, on the corner with the main road. Mycroft suppresses a fond smile—he can’t be in _that_ much trouble if his lover still kept discretion about the address of the Diogenes Club. Obviously Greg didn’t march straight over but gave himself a moment—probably to smoke that first-in-nine-weeks cigarette, too, and that means he must have asked someone for it, a passer-by…A man—the tobacco smell has a distinctly non-feminine undercurrent. Was it a young man? A good-looking man?

Mycroft should really find the time to peruse that tobacco monograph Sherlock put together.

Greg was smoking, pacing around that corner and his foot hit the loosened pavement, splashing residual water onto his shoes and trousers. How unfortunate for Greg and how fortunate for Mycroft, for now he is able to draw a very useful conclusion: There won’t be a scene. Greg’s been trying to pull himself together and come up with a strategy. The nicotine would have started working straight away, so he should be calmer by now as well.

Greg has just stood by Mycroft’s chair while Mycroft was gathering his data, and now he raises his eyebrows as if asking, _Are you done?_ He knows the rules of the club and he’s obeying them, despite the fact that he’s the most ticked off Mycroft has ever seen him with anyone who isn’t a criminal, Sherlock notwithstanding. And since Mycroft includes in that all the times he’s watched Greg without his knowledge, it’s the most ticked off he’s seen him in quite a long time. It’s probably best finally to lower the paper halfway.

Mycroft does it slowly, keeping his face placid, while his mind frantically begins searching for a reasonable explanation for why he had felt it was his business to arrange a promotion for his boyfriend. One very honest answer is because he _could_. But it would be unacceptable to tell Greg that. At the very least Mycroft would then have to explain what it costs him to contain himself all the time: not to have Greg under 24-hour surveillance; not to solve all his cases; not to buy him the most revoltingly luxurious garments, trinkets, and cars; not to arrange for him the second best Millennium Suite at Stamford Bridge (although a quick word with Abramovich would provide access to the best one, too). Not to touch Greg all the time, not to put him under lock and key so he never, ever goes anywhere without Mycroft, not to make his life so easy to live that God would weep to be in his place.

Mycroft has practiced a lot of restraint, indeed, but none so tiring as the pretence that his respect for Greg’s boundaries is effortless. He loves and respects _Greg_ —but the rest has been the result of perpetual self-harassment. Mycroft was allowed to slip, just once. It’s been six months, after all.

Despite the superb management of his facial muscles, something of his thoughts must have flickered on his face—very likely in the eyes, of course Greg would seek to read his eyes—and Mycroft sees Greg’s own eyes narrow minutely. There’s no change in his expression, though; it remains dark and quite resolute. Suddenly all the excitement of unpredictability becomes cloying, and then with a sickening loop in Mycroft’s stomach it transforms into dread. What if Greg has found him out? What if he’s seen him for the repressed, über-controlling, dysfunctional creature he is? What if Greg has resolved to leave Mycroft and forbids him ever to go near him again?

Mycroft takes a careful, deep breath through his nose and orders his panicking mind to get some perspective, for goodness’ sake. But with an incredulous look his mind ignores him—This is Greg, this is about feelings, _what_ perspective?—and continues panicking with abandon.

Ten seconds of this and Mycroft begins to wonder if he hasn’t been glued to his seat and left there to suffer for eternity. Greg is simply watching him, eyes formidably hooded and in charge, but then something loosens in his jaw; his lips part and form the words soundlessly: _Come with me_.

Mycroft is a man of considerable power, but he was once a little boy. He puts his paper away, gets up, and obediently follows the serious policeman.

Greg walks with confidence, as if he’s spent his every other afternoon at the club since he turned thirty. His step is silky and quiet. He presses his heels into the floor more freely where it’s thickly carpeted, thus adding a swagger to his hips, and he treads lightly over the wooden surfaces, making Mycroft’s catlike steps echo almost indecently. They walk for a minute and by their trajectory Mycroft can’t be quite sure if they’re about to exit the club through the very private back door or go to the staff rooms. Both options seem equally incomprehensible: What would Greg want with the staff? Or why would he want to leave through the back door? Mycroft realizes with a sinking feeling that he’s entered a terra incognita; he is genuinely perplexed by something as simple as human intentions. Damn the man.

Yet despite cursing him Mycroft _still_ finds himself unable to avoid focusing on the line of Greg’s lower back. While the vertical length of the spine is delightful—no wonder artists are drawn, pun intended, to that part of the human anatomy—it’s the horizontal line that is the hidden masterpiece, at least for Mycroft. It’s fleshier than the shirt reveals; the shirt itself, white and ordinary, moves in a subtle yet unmistakably masculine way, enchanted into life by the body of the man underneath it. Mycroft caresses Greg’s back with his eyes, as if to mollify any rigidity out of it. But nothing changes—Greg still walks, and Mycroft still follows, none the wiser. Even his uncanny intuition when it comes to his dearest (Mycroft still shudders at the memory of how he just _knew_ when Sherlock broke his wrist at six.) keeps an enigmatic finger at its lips.

Ah, at last. The back door it is, then. There isn’t a trace of reaction on the doorman’s face when he sees them—he might as well be a wax figure. But Mycroft knows the poor man is startled, and no doubt worried that something truly terrible has befallen his home country if this particular gentleman chooses to leave through this particular exit. Mycroft wonders what the doorman’s made of Greg but has no time to dwell on it; at least Mycroft manages to catch the doorman’s big blue eyes and widens his own reassuringly—there’s no need to cause alarm.

Greg pushes the door open and then stands aside, clearly inviting Mycroft to go through first. Mycroft’s eyes fall on the tiny, dark hallway, separating the club from the house attached to it. On the outside numbers 42 and 44 look like two ordinary attached Georgian houses. On the inside, there’s a very tight space, a hidden compartment of sorts. It can’t be more than a meter long and two meters wide. In two steps one goes through the door, leading into number 44. That house in turn provides passage to a third house—or rather to its basement flat—until the journey concludes at a very unassuming side street.

Subversive, Mycroft’s eyes at last bore into Greg’s, requesting a hint, a guideline, anything in the way of explanation, but there’s nothing. Mycroft straightens his back, lifts his chin in a gesture he believes won’t be misinterpreted, and steps into the narrow space. As soon as he does, Greg slides in behind him and shuts the door. Sudden twilight is added to the silence that surrounds them.

Just as Mycroft wonders if opening the second door is expected of him—with the two of them “sandwiched” Mycroft’s front is all but brushing the door—Greg grabs him by the arm and quickly manoeuvres him to face the wall on their left. Mycroft’s hands join the wall, too, slapped against it open-palmed, and Greg’s knee pushes between Mycroft’s thighs to spread them. It all happens in a single liquid motion, so quick and efficient that Mycroft would be impressed if he wasn’t the one subjected to it. His nose touches the wallpaper; he’s effectively trapped.

Mycroft expects Greg to start hissing in his ear and reprimand him, and worries that Greg’s forgotten talking isn’t allowed anywhere on the club’s grounds. But it’s his own throat that has to shut down before a yelp escapes it, when Greg reaches forward and brusquely starts undoing Mycroft’s belt. A voiceless gasp is all that leaves Mycroft’s lips as his body fights to process the sudden explosion of conflicting impulses: to spread his legs wider, to gulp and relieve his suddenly papyrus dry throat, to push his pelvis forward, to turn his head, try to look at Greg and see if he really is—whether he’s really—He wouldn’t. Greg _wouldn’t_ —

In the few seconds while Mycroft is reeling, Greg has undone his belt, his fly, and has pushed Mycroft’s trousers open. He’s slid his hand unceremoniously into his underwear and is now fondling Mycroft’s “dangerous package” as Greg likes to call it from time to time. Although this time Mycroft feels he should be excused for wrinkling his nose. He is struggling to find anything amusing in the situation, especially considering the impudence with which his body seems to do as it pleases. He’s half-erect already, God help him, and the first sound in what seems like a century suddenly sets all Mycroft’s nerve endings on fire—Greg has growled throatily at the feel of Mycroft’s rapidly stiffening penis. He continues his ministrations with brutish vigour, an instinctive, ubiquitous pattern quickly forming in the way the palm rubs up and down, up and down, oh God. Mycroft closes his eyes and orders his senses to return from the abrupt, unauthorized leave they’ve taken.

He assesses the situation, recognizing that sadly a goldfish would probably do a better job of it. The door leading out of here cannot be opened from the outside, so no possible intruders from that direction. The door through which they came can very easily be opened from both sides. Mycroft tries to calculate the chances of someone deciding to use the private exit just now. Tuesday afternoon, three o’clock. No more than six people in the club. Who did Mycroft see? His brain veers off as all its pleasure centres rise together, euphoric—Greg has just pushed his thigh between Mycroft’s legs again. And why is Mycroft still keeping his hands splayed on the wall? And why is Mycroft still doing it _after_ he’s realized he’s been keeping them splayed on the wall? Goodness, is that Greg’s hand at the back of—Is he pulling Mycroft’s trousers d—No, he’s opening his own trousers, hand squashed between their bodies and working in such a lewd way…He’s fumbling to get himself out, Mycroft can smell him already—Think, Mycroft, _think_. Who was in the club? Right. Right. Right. Oh! Right—what was his company’s Dow Jones index at midday? Right. Good. _So_ good, _oh_... Think Mycroft! Who else? Oh. No, that crisis won’t peter out until the end of the week. Right. Right.

Right.

There is just enough risk to make Mycroft’s palms start leaving damp prints on top of the wallpaper’s embossed ones. No, the doorman shouldn’t be a problem—it’s not his business to know anything about anyone as long as they go through the first door, and yet...And by Mycroft’s pathetic attempts at coherent reasoning no one else should come through it in the next—how long? Are they going to—What has Greg planned? _What_ is this?

Mycroft gets the answers to his questions immediately, in the shape of Greg’s underarm pushing down his upper body and pinning it immobile while his other hand roughly yanks down Mycroft’s trousers and boxer shorts, then wrinkles the backs of his jacket and shirt up and out of the way. Another round of wild, uncoordinated emotions empties into Mycroft’s chest and he’s oddly grateful for Greg’s arm still locking him under its horizontal weight—it prevents Mycroft from collapsing when the coolness of his completely bare backside brings the dawn of realization. Greg intends to—Greg will—Greg is going to have sex with him, right here, right this instant.

Before Mycroft has the chance to decide whether he is mortified, aroused, ashamed for being aroused, curious or, indeed, hallucinating, the tip of Greg’s penis presses between his cheeks in a way that is so hungry, heavy, and material that at least it eliminates the last possibility outright. Then Greg is spreading him open, and Mycroft feels oddly weightless. His confusion drains out of him, together with any ideas of resistance. He is trapped, indeed; now he fully understands it—just like he understands what this is about.

He closes his eyes and lets Greg nudge his legs wider so that Mycroft’s height is no longer a problem. They’ve done this before, and, in a wonderful after-effect of his epiphany, Mycroft knows that they _will_ do it again. This is a lesson, not a punishment—and certainly not a goodbye. Mycroft remembers to take a deep, gasping breath as he marvels at his discovery. The incredible, the impossible has happened. He trusts someone more than he trusts himself. He trusts someone, full stop. Greg cradles Mycroft’s testicles and Mycroft melts into his hand, into his power—he relinquishes his last drop of control to the man who literally has him by the balls, and he is grateful to the bottom of his soul to have a touch that means both electrifying intensity and security, containment. _Home_.

Mycroft hears Greg spit; the immediate stretch of entry is a teetering sensation between pleasure and pain, and Mycroft wouldn’t have it any other way. Greg, of course, knows how serious the stakes are for both of them, being the one who designed this…this…this experiment of the century, this _pièce de résistance_ of their union—so he just presses bluntly in. And then he’s pushing, sliding, conquering, until Mycroft closes his eyes again, sensations flooding his body and bringing it back from its weightlessness, making it searingly alive again. Greg stops when he’s buried in, and Mycroft senses a minute tremor run through his body as he leans his chest awkwardly against Mycroft’s back. Mycroft yearns for Greg’s arms around him, for his murmurs and swears of appreciation, but there is a different purpose to this. He spreads his legs wider still, trapping Greg even more thickly inside, swallows and waits.

He doesn’t have to wait long. Greg gets hold of his hips, underarm bearing lightly down to position Mycroft at the best angle, and begins to move in that ancient, void-of-whimsy, animalistic way that indisputably defines a male at sexual congress. Mycroft rockets backward and forward under the thrusts of his lover, the burn and discomfort blurred immediately by the singular pleasure of being penetrated, owned by the man you not only love, but are besotted with. The motions are the most unimaginative in the world, and yet the world stops and bows to them. Mycroft’s head bows with it, shoulders dropping to mirror his slacked, semi-open mouth, where saliva has pooled at the very tip with nothing—no muscle, no self-awareness—to keep it in. Mycroft slurps and lets his head loll, lets his body move like an extension of Greg’s body; shove after shove, all of them the same, yet each of them topping the previous one immeasurably to create a build-up that can’t be confused with any other.

Mycroft is snapped back from his haze by a particularly skilful and wet tug on his penis—What? When did Greg wrap his hand around Mycroft? When did Greg wet his hand? Oh God, he put his fingers in Mycroft’s mouth and Mycroft sucked on them like the ridiculous whore that he is for Greg Lestrade. As soon as he thinks it, Mycroft has to bite a vicious moan—and at that same moment Greg snaps his hips at a very particular angle, just as he tightens his slick hold and tugs harder. Mycroft shakes and Greg lets go of him immediately, drills in and out of him without another touch of his hands, then after another eternity gets hold of him once more, and once more Mycroft pumps in, breathless, before Greg abandons him _again_ …

He does it every time Mycroft is getting close. He creates a wicked, cruel cycle and soon Mycroft wants to sob with frustration and relief at the very moment Greg’s fist returns to wrap around him. No one has told him not to touch himself—no one has said anything—yet Mycroft knows that in this, here, he is not allowed. He grinds his teeth and finds it fitting that his head is softly banging against his arm, propped on the wall. Both of Greg’s hands have finally got hold of Mycroft’s hips, pulling Mycroft to impale him harder onto Greg’s stone-hard penis.

Suddenly Mycroft nearly cries out again, this time when he feels Greg’s hot breath against the shell of his ear. It’s not the sensation—it’s Greg’s voice. Words at last; probably the first words uttered within this club’s walls in years. And oh, the sacred irony—“Not a word from you,” Greg whispers. “Not a sound.”

At that instant Mycroft realizes he’s been panting all along, marking each of Greg’s thrusts. Mycroft’s mouth claps shut just as Greg’s mouth opens, and again his breath seems to spell his message right into Mycroft’s brain. “I’m so close—I’m going to come—inside you, and you—Oh fuck—I want you to walk—and sit, and stand, all day—and know that—oh God—wet with my come—inside your—Fuck— _Fuck_ …”

Greg bites his fist as his body jerks. Mycroft knows now that he won’t be allowed to come at all, but at least he has beaten Greg to the biting of the fist: There are deliciously symmetrical teeth marks all over Mycroft’s hand—being thoroughly fucked is one thing, but being talked dirty to at the same time while _nothing_ is allowed for you—not coming, not talking, not crying, moaning, or even panting…Mycroft has found new heights of self-restraint here that he hopes never to reach again.

Greg, on the other hand, is panting freely against his neck, mouth haphazardly kissing Mycroft’s nape, the tender skin behind his ear—Greg’s favourite spot—then he turns Mycroft’s chin and rubs his face gently against Mycroft’s, eyes closed and skin warm. His arms have finally wrapped around Mycroft’s waist, holding firmly, uncaring as always about any excess his hands might find there. Mycroft discovers that his mouth has watered once more and he gulps noisily, the sound strangely comforting in its human resonance.

Greg’s breath steadies and he carefully pulls out of Mycroft. Mycroft shivers, both at the sensation and at the memory of Greg’s broken commands at the end. He feels his body shut tightly to obey them; then he numbly lifts his trousers, tucks in his shirt, buttons himself up. He takes his handkerchief out and wipes his face—he’ll have to go and change immediately, of course, but this is First Aid. His hand automatically runs over his chest, at the back of his suit jacket, over his hair. He’s still facing the wall; behind him Mycroft can hear the same noises of self-grooming, but less fastidious. Finally he feels movement and turns halfway to the right. Greg is standing by the second door. Their eyes meet and stay calmly locked together for several seconds. At last Mycroft blinks. Greg’s chest expands and he turns and opens the door. He crosses the threshold and once beyond it, turns again and says with his normal voice, “I’ll see you at home.”

Then he closes the door.

Mycroft purses his lips as he contemplates the generic panels of the closed door. He squints at the empty space around him, too, before bowing his head. He can feel his heart in his throat like a little bird trying to hatch and he stays still, just breathing for a while and leaning on his faithful reserve of equanimity. Things will be different, Mycroft thinks, and feels grateful for the blessing of change having come to a person like him.

He lifts his head, adjusts his tie, and reaches for the door leading back into the club.

**Author's Note:**

> Beta'd by the fantastic disastrolabe. I wrote this, setting it in the "I Know the Steps" verse, but it can be read perfectly independently from it. Original entry both at the Mystrade Fanworks Festival Page at http://mystradefanfest.livejournal.com/7917.html and at my Livejournal at http://stardust-made.livejournal.com/33800.html


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